The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,19

knew all of it, and though he’d scoff at any suggestion he was worried for Tristan, he’d appeared in Great Marlborough Street far more often these past weeks than he’d been in the habit of doing.

“You’ll be pleased to know I wasn’t in bed by half ten. I went out again after I left White’s.”

“Well, that sounds promising. Where did you go?” Lyndon took an enormous bite of his tartlet, groaning with appreciation.

“Well, since you ask, Lyndon, I spied a young boy on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment, chased him from Great Marlborough Street to St. Clement Dane’s Church, discovered he wasn’t in fact a boy at all, but a young woman, then I chased her through a graveyard and every back alleyway in Westminster until I caught her on Maddox Street.”

Lyndon had been making happy noises as he devoured his tartlet, but by the time Tristan finished, he was choking on it. “Urg…Ack…”

Tristan waved over the footman. “James, if you’d be so kind as to thump Lord Lyndon before he expires in my breakfast room.”

“Yes, my lord.” James darted forward and whacked Lyndon on the back until soggy bits of apricot tartlet spewed from his mouth. “Beg your pardon, sir.”

“Not at all, James,” Lyndon gasped. “Good man.”

“Well done, James. Thank you.” Tristan took a calm sip of his coffee, and waited.

Lyndon coughed and spluttered a bit more, but finally he wiped his streaming eyes and turned an indignant look on Tristan. “Jesus, Gray. You might have warned me.”

“I might have, yes.” Tristan gave him a small smile. “I beg your pardon. I thought you’d appreciate a more dramatic telling.”

“Well, of course I do.” Lyndon, undaunted, took up the untouched tartlet on his plate and began to devour it. “Good Lord, Gray. That sounds far more entertaining than White’s. What did you do with this young woman once you caught her?”

“I let her go again.” Not by choice, but one didn’t tangle with Brixton unless one was prepared for a brawl.

Lyndon paused with the tartlet halfway to his mouth. “What, just like that? After all that trouble?”

“She had more…resources than I anticipated. A protector, that is.” The smile faded from Tristan’s lips as he met his friend’s gaze. “Daniel Brixton.”

Lyndon’s eyes went wide. “Brixton? You mean that large, terribly frightening fellow who works for Lady…” Lyndon trailed off, his eyes going even wider.

“Lady Clifford, yes. The young woman on the roof was one of Lady Clifford’s, er…” What did one call them? Demons? Felons, perhaps? “One of her pupils.”

Lyndon dropped the tartlet back onto his plate. “You mean to tell me you saw one of Lady Clifford’s fiendish sprites on Lord Everly’s rooftop and followed her to St. Clement Dane’s Church?”

“She was following Peter Sharpe.” Tristan hadn’t realized it was Sharpe at the time, but when he’d caught the girl—Sophia—at the door of the Clifford School, the puzzle pieces had fallen into place quickly enough.

Of course, it was Sharpe. It was the only thing that made sense.

“Sharpe?” Lyndon gave a low whistle. “That’s some trouble waiting to happen, that is.”

“You may be certain it’s already happening. The only question is, how far has it gone? Lady Clifford is no fool, and it’s no accident the girl was following Sharpe. They mean to see what they can do to save Jeremy Ives.”

“Not a bloody thing, from what I’ve heard. Everyone in London knows Ives is guilty.”

Everyone but Lady Clifford. But then perhaps she did know it, and simply didn’t care. “He is guilty, and I mean to see him brought to justice for his crimes, no matter what mischief Lady Clifford and her, er…” Hellions? Vixens, perhaps? “…students are doing to help him escape it.”

“I see. You intend to remain in London, then?”

Tristan was only meant to be in London until the end of the week. He’d promised his mother he’d return to Oxfordshire then, and get on with the business of being Lord Gray.

But he’d made other promises, too. Promises to Henry, and on Henry’s behalf to Abigail, and their infant son, Samuel. “For a brief time, yes. Another month, perhaps.”

Lyndon had been tearing what was left of his tartlet into pieces, but now he pushed the plate aside and dusted the crumbs off his fingers. “Your mother won’t like it.”

“No.” Tristan’s mother had made it clear she expected him to fulfill the duties of a title his elder brother, Thomas, had been shirking for years, starting with resigning his place with the Bow Street Runners and ending with